


Tell Me Everything Will Be OK

by PhilTrashNo164



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Dermatillomania, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, hopefully this might actually help someone out there with this, talk of blood and wounds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-04-08 02:12:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14094795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhilTrashNo164/pseuds/PhilTrashNo164
Summary: Dan has dermatillomania. With therapy and self care, it’s manageable. Most of the time. This is the story of when it’s not.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is for all of us out there that have been blessed by the joy that is dermatillomania. For the uninitiated, it’s a disorder characterised by excessive picking of the skin, usually of the face, arms, or chest. Some people argue it falls under the label of OCD. There’s mentions of blood and wounds right from the start of this fic, and if you feel this might trigger you I recommend giving it a pass. I’ve yet to read or watch any piece of fiction that features excessive skin picking, so here I am giving us all some representation. Hope you enjoy :)

When Dan strolls into the kitchen, half asleep and in desperate need of caffeine, Phil freezes, mid spoon-to-mouth, and looks him up and down. “Nice outfit.”

 

Dan knows that Phil doesn’t have x-ray vision, that he’s staring at his new pajamas, that’s all, and they’re completely opaque, and hide and cover enough skin that he looks like-

 

“You look like you’re about to break into a jewellery shop and steal all their diamonds. I should get you a ski mask, to complete the look.”

 

“Thanks, Phil. I was going for more ‘gothic chic’, but fine.”

 

 _He’s just staring at your pajamas. Uncross your arms, breathe_ , Dan tells himself.

 

Phil spoons more cereal into his mouth, chews for a few seconds before saying, “Long sleeve, all-black, _really_? I think you’re regressing back to your emo stage.”

 

Dan huffs out a laugh. “Oi. You know that’s a sensitive subject.”

 

“I suppose I can’t talk. It took me until last week to lose the fringe, after all.” Phil scrapes his spoon around his bowl, reaching for the last pieces of cereal and dribbles of milk, gulps them down, and heads to the sink.

 

“Yeah, old man,” Dan says.

 

The second Phil’s back is turned, Dan’s left hand shoots up under his shirt to his shoulder, lingers over the fresh wound that lies there. Black makes you look thinner, everyone knows that. But only the “lucky ones” ( _ha_ , he thinks, _lucky fucking me_ ) know that black also hides bloodstains, too. With his old pajama top he felt like Lady Macbeth, hunched over the bathroom sink in the early hours of the morning trying to scrub out the red stains with a nail brush and too-expensive face wash, living in fear of Phil noticing and frowning and commenting, and this is just the one thing Dan can never tell him about, because _reasons_ . All-black gives him a security blanket. It possibly also means his mind will convince himself to just “pick at that pore one more time, no one will ever see now you’re wearing black 24/7,” but, as his therapist says, _baby steps_.

 

There was a time when he could sleep topless, didn’t have to cover up his arms and back, didn’t have to worry that, even with a pajama top on, Phil would see how he maimed himself, and consequently freak out, unfriend him, expose him, kick him out of the flat, et cetera. There were days and weeks and even months where he was completely fine. Maybe it’s the stress of the upcoming tour, or maybe it’s just time to fuck himself up and undo all his progress, because that always seems to happen, but he’s not fine right now. Sometimes he wonders if one day he’ll do so much damage his entire skin will just fall off. That would be a relief.

 

Phil finishes rinsing out the bowl, turns back around, and Dan tries his best to stand in a relaxed, “don’t worry, I’m not bleeding” way.

 

“I was thinking we could do another Mario Kart video?” Phil asks.

 

Dan makes a conscious effort to unclench his hands, reaches past Phil for the toast in the freezer, gets an impulse mid-journey to just gently scratch his latest shoulder wound, settles for rubbing a circle round it with his index finger, and finally gets the toast out, praying that Phil didn’t notice anything odd.

 

“‘You VS the Japanese super-nerds’ would be something I think everyone wants to see,” Dan says, popping the toast into the toaster and trying not to think about the scab on his upper back, and whether the pajama top covers it. It did last night, when he stood in front of the mirror modelling it at all angles, but then again the wound was smaller back then. It sounds weird, but sometimes the only way to get out of a 4AM existential crisis is to scratch and squeeze at his skin until he falls into some kind of soothing trance. It’s weird, and it makes no sense, but it works. At this point, he feels marijuana would probably do less damage.

 

“We both know I’m actually amazing at Mario Kart,” Phil says, getting the peanut butter out of the cupboard without any prompting. He hands it to Dan, who says “thanks” with his eyes, and then rolls them.

 

“Sure you are, Phil. While we’re at it, you’re also great at keeping houseplants alive, and keeping to a regular schedule of exercise, and taking selfies without my help-”

 

“Hey!”

 

“-those guys’ entire _life_ is Mario Kart. Even _I_ can’t beat them. Which is why it would be hilarious to see _you_ try.”

 

Phil sticks his tongue out at him (“wow, mature, Phil”), says “We have Celebrity Bake-Off to catch up on first, that guy from Made in Chelsea or whatever is in it, shall we- Dan?”

 

“I’m just going to go moisturise,” Dan calls, from halfway up the stairs. “My face feels dry.”

 

“Your mum feels dry-”

 

“You know, I rue the day you decided ‘mum’ jokes were funny. I really do.”

 

“I’ll do your toast, because I’m a good friend,” Phil calls back to him, and Dan thinks, _OK, I have 60 seconds, tops, to lock myself in the bathroom and just pick at that_ one _spot_ -

 

When his nail brushes against the offending area, he actually lets out a sigh, and for the next forty or so seconds everything goes blank, in the best possible way, until-

 

“Toast’s done! I may have had a bite. Or two…”

 

He lathers up his hands with soap, winces at the blood under his nails, washes it off, and then applies some sudocrem (he’s running out, time to order more) to his shoulder wound. He appraises himself in the mirror. That “high” feeling usually lasts for a good two minutes, and right now he feels totally relaxed, his mind clear of any worry or stress.

 

 _If only it lasted forever_ , he thinks to himself, and trudges downstairs to his breakfast.

 

*

 

It’s kind of a miracle, really, that he’s been able to keep it from Phil for so long. He knows that if his picking focused on his face he’d have no chance, so in a way he’s grateful it’s concentrated on areas he can easily hide. In the past when things got bad he’d hide his back under jumpers even in the sweltering summer heat, under the pretence that he felt too fat to show his skin. Phil had supported him, been there for him, not pressed the issue. Deep down Dan knows that Phil would probably do the same if he came clean about, well, _this_ , but he just can’t bring himself to tell him. After so much therapy you’d think the issue would be non-existent. To be fair to his therapist, these episodes are happening less and less. He tries to remind himself of that when he’s in the eye of the storm.

 

“Wow, this guy makes us look like Nigella,” Phil’s saying, and Dan’s nodding, and thinking about the itch he’s got on his lower spine. _You don’t get acne_ , Dan, he whispers to himself, _especially not on your back._ _You’re hallucinating, there’s nothing there._

 

He counts to 30 in his head. _If I could just pick at it just once_ -

 

Phil laughs out loud at the poor guy’s attempt at tiramisu biscuits, and Dan’s jolted out of his head for a few seconds, enough that the thoughts temporarily go away.

 

And then they’re back.

 

“I’m just going to get a glass of water,” he says, and practically sprints to the kitchen. He throws open the freezer door, and places a bag of peas to the back of his neck.

 

 _God, I must look ridiculous. Still, if it works, it works, right_?

 

There really isn’t much literature on dermatillomania, so he’d stolen some tips from a self-harm blog, tips like _ice can give you the same kind of hit without all the damage_ , and in a pinch they seemed to actually help. It wasn’t a long term fix, but it didn’t look like there _was_ a long term fix, so this would have to do.

 

“You drank that quickly,” Phil says, when Dan walks back into the lounge, having totally forgotten to keep up pretences, and, you know, actually get a glass of water.

 

Dan just grunts in response.

 

*

 

“I can’t be 12th! C’mon tanooki mario, c’mon! No! No no no no-”

 

“And he loses again, ladies and gentleman,” Dan says, giving the camera a “oh, _poor_ Phil” glance. “Don’t give up the day job just yet, mate.”

 

Phil’s too busy biting the controller to respond.

 

“Let me have a go, I’ll show you how it’s done,” Dan offers, or rather _orders_. There’s a spot forming on his chin, he can just feel it, and it’s taking everything he’s got to not run upstairs and tear it to shreds. Hopefully this will distract him for long enough that the urge passes. He can’t go on tour with a glowing red mark on his face, but sometimes even vanity isn’t strong enough to stop him.

 

Phil passes the controller over, and soon Dan’s able to ignore his compulsions. _Mario Kart to the rescue, I guess._

 

“Oh, am I already in second place? Oh, whoops, let me just slow down, oh, I’m still second, wow, aren’t I making this look easy-”

 

“I hate you,” Phil whines. “Seriously, you should put this on your CV.”

 

“It’ll fit in nicely between ‘chronic procrastinator’ and ‘crippling perfectionist’”, Dan quips, grinning as he swerves into first place.

 

Phil places a hand over Dan’s eyes, and Dan has to contort his neck to see over it. “Oh dear, is someone a sore loser? Just accept it, Phil. Accept that-” his kart crosses the finish line, the others trailing behind “-I am just the god of this game.”

 

“We should rename this channel ‘DanGamesAlone’”.

 

“Yes, yes we should.” Dan hands the controller back, allows himself to place a finger on his jaw, as a sort of twisted reward. “I think I’ve got a spot coming,” he mutters. “Just gonna put some cream on it.”

 

“I don’t think you’d know a spot if it came up behind you and said ‘boo’,” Phil remarks, and Dan just laughs. _If only he knew…_

 

*

 

Bathrooms are dangerous places. Bathrooms with mirrors, doubly so. But Dan’s OK. He’s got this. He washes his face with that too-expensive face wash, steals some of Phil’s moisturiser, bumps his nose against the mirror as he stares at his chin. There’s no visible mark, but he can just _feel_ it. He makes a show of rubbing more sudocrem into the area. He’s going to take care of himself, dammit.

 

The resolve lasts until he’s back downstairs again. “Cake break?” he calls to Phil.

 

Sometimes it seems he can only focus on one area of improvement at a time - if his diet is good, his exercise regime will be nonexistent, and if he goes for one fifteen minute jog he’ll reward himself by ignoring all medical advice and staying up until 3AM, eyes glued to some telemarketing channel on TV.

 

 _I am a work in progress_ , he tells himself. He scratches his arm, feels an uneven bump. He closes his eyes. _I will practice self care, I will-_

 

“Cake?” he yells, already getting it out of the cupboard. Time to eat his feelings.

 

*

 

_“Does it hurt? Sorry, should I take my hand off-”_

 

_“Feels pretty good, actually,” Dan says, lifting his hips up a bit. “Just keep doing what you’re-”_

 

_“I mean that rash on your shoulder. Sorry. I was just steading myself, and-”_

 

_Dan’s eyes snap open. “It’s… just acne.” He feels his cheeks heat. Damn, and things were going so well..._

 

_She raises her head. “My cousin had that. Try shower gel with tea tree oil in it, that’s what worked for her.”_

 

_“This is such a sexy conversation,” Dan jokes, trying to get back into that blissed-out headspace, but the moment’s over. “It’s your turn now,” he says, when she looks at him quizzically as he bats her hand away._

 

_“You’re such a gentleman,” she says._

 

_“Yeah,” he says, frowning as his shoulder starts itching. “So, what did you say your dog was called again?”_

 

_“You’re so random!’ she exclaims._

 

*

 

“Would you say it’s getting in the way of intimacy?”

 

“I’m not really, uh, getting any, anyway,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck (for once out of awkwardness rather than compulsion), and forcing away the unwelcome memory that has risen up. “But I suppose you _could_ say that. With Phil, like, I’m acting kinda weird and secretive, and I don’t like it.”

 

His therapist writes a few notes, and then looks up through her glasses. “If it’s getting bad again, we could try another short round of CBT?”

 

“Another?” He lets out a humourless laugh. “Isn’t there a magical pill, or something?”

 

“Since you are already on medication, I wouldn’t advise trying anything at this particular moment. We can revisit more short term solutions, in preparation for your travel. Which ones are you already trying?”

 

He lists them off on his fingers: “Keeping my nails short, practising self care instead of giving in to the urges, hurting myself with ice, or cold water, and stuff, I’ve even painted my nails a couple of times, uh, for a brief time I had this wristband that I’d pull at, I could go back to that?”

 

“I think you have a good grasp of what works and what doesn’t.” She leans forward, hands clasped together. “I’m going to recommend more CBT. That’s probably not what you want to hear, but you have to remind yourself that how you are now isn’t as nearly as bad as how you used to be. These things are working, Dan. It just takes time.”

 

“I know,” he sighs.

 

“I’d also recommend telling your friend,” she says. “Support is really-”

 

“Telling him? Oh, no way, I-”

 

“I’d like you to consider it.”

 

“Fine,” he says.

 

*

 

Phil blinks at him from deep within his sofa crease. “What are you doing up so early?”

 

“I could ask you the same question.”

 

“I’m not up,” Phil says, “I just fell asleep here, and woke up when you started clattering around. But _you’re_ up. Can’t sleep?”

 

“I’ve got a CBT session. Just, like, a refresher before we go away, you know? It’s going to be weird not seeing my therapist every week.”

 

Phil’s expression softens. “We can always-”

 

“We can’t cancel, and you know it. I’ll be fine, Phil.”

 

He doesn’t look convinced. “You’d tell me if anything was up, right?”

 

“Of course.”

 

If there was a slight pause before answering, Phil doesn’t comment on it. He just smiles, and Dan’s reminded of how much (totally undeserved) trust Phil has for him.

 

“See you later,” Phil says, “Could you pick me up some more hair gel on the way back? The one I bought yesterday smells weird.”

 

“You’ve got a problem,” Dan says. “I never should have told you to get rid of the fringe.”

 

Phil throws a cushion at him in response.

 

As Dan leaves the house, he thinks to himself, _I’ll tell him if things get really bad._

 

_Won’t I?_

 

*

“How was it?”

 

Dan takes a moment to catch his breath. “Jesus, Phil, you gave me a heart attack! Don’t just loom behind the door like that, Jesus.”

 

“It’s not my fault I could hear you huffing and puffing up the stairs-”

 

“I think you mean ‘breathing in a manly way’-”

 

“So, how was it? What did you do?”

 

“Just some… breathing exercises,” Dan says, stepping into the flat. “Basic stuff I should already know how to do, basically.”

 

He feels bad lying, but he also knows that if he told Phil the truth it would cause him a lot of worry, and he doesn’t want that. He imagines saying to Phil “I spent 45 minutes practising clenching my fist every time I wanted to rip my skin to shreds, in order to create a new positive association,” can’t.

 

“I made soup!" Phil exclaims, apparently satisfied with that answer. "It’s a bit, er, soupy-”

 

“Uh, OK?”

 

“-but it tastes fine. I think. Maybe. There’s quite a lot of pepper in it. I probably shouldn’t make food when I’ve got a cold.”

 

Dan puts his arm on Phil’s shoulder, lets it rest there. “I’m sure it’s delici-”

 

“Oh god - I forgot to take it off the heat! Oh god-”

 

Phil rushes into the kitchen. Dan doesn’t hold back his grin.

 

*

“Do you like it?”

 

Dan stares down at the pile of fabric that has been thrown into his lap, prods it with a finger.

 

“You bought this for me?”

 

He holds it out, looking at the words on the front of the shirt: “What I lack in serotonin I make up for in sarcasm”.

 

Laughing, he looks up at Phil, who has an anxious look on his face. “It’s perfect, thank you.”

 

Phil relaxes. “I was just browsing online and I saw it and I thought, ‘I know a certain Daniel who would wear that’”.

 

Dan just smiles.

 

“Aren’t you going to try it on?” Phil asks, after a beat.

 

“What, right now?”

 

Phil nods vigorously. “I want to see it!”

 

Dan looks at the t shirt again: it’s short sleeved. There’s an angry red mark on his right arm, and it’d probably be noticeable if he wore it. “How about tomorrow?”

 

“No, now!”

 

“I said tomorrow,” Dan snaps, and then instantly hates himself when Phil’s smile drops.

 

“Sorry, I just-”

 

“You’re getting stressed about touring?” Phil says gently, and Dan just can’t believe how someone so nice is best friends with someone as negative as himself.

 

“Yeah,” Dan says, rubbing the mark on his arm without even being aware of choosing to do so. “Sorry.”

 

“We’ll be fine,” Phil says. “We’ll be better than fine.”

 

“We’ll do great,” Dan says, trying to believe it. He gets up. “I’m just going to, uh, get some ribena…”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m glad you guys like this, it’s such a personal topic to me so it’s kinda cathartic to write it all down, you know? Message me any time if you need anything :)

“Are you gonna be getting out anytime soon? I’m starving! Do you mind if I eat without you?”

 

Dan blinks away the haze, moves his fingers from the back of his shoulder, only to immediately bring them back there. “I only just got in the bath, you dork.”

 

“Did you fall asleep or something?”

 

The bubbles are now almost non-existent. He won’t be buying that bubble bar again. Come to think of it, the water’s a little cold-

 

“It’s been almost an hour, Dan!” Phil calls through the door, and _shit_ , it’s happened again. How much of Dan’s life has been lost to that spaced out feeling, that headspace that - if pressed - he’d admit to enjoying even more than jacking off?

 

His shoulder’s a mess, and he knows the wound will hurt later. It will take days to heal (if he even lets it heal).

 

“I’ll be out in five,” he says.

 

“OK,” Phil says, and then Dan’s unplugging the bath plug, angry at himself for floating away on the path of self destruction once again. He should have known a bath was a bad idea. He wraps a towel around himself, glad that it’s black, because his shoulder is really starting to bleed now.

 

He should know better. Really, any moment where he’s left to his own devices is a dangerous one. Shame is possibly an unhealthy motivator, but it works - he doesn’t pick if there’s someone else in the room with him. _Maybe things will get better during the tour_ , he thinks to himself, watching the blood trickle down his arm. _They did last time_ . All those hours in the constant company of someone else, though they may have driven him a little stir-crazy towards the end, ensured that he had little opportunity to do, well, _this_.

 

(There was that night where he locked himself in the tour bus loo for two hours and went to town on a bump on his thigh, attacking it with a pair of tweezers Cornelia left on the sink, but he doesn’t like to think about that. He’s just lucky it didn’t get infected.)

 

“I think we should spend more time together,” Dan announces a few minutes later, and Phil looks up from the oven in surprise.

 

“More? We’re practically joined at the hip!”

 

“It’d be to get us acclimatised, ready for the tour,” Dan says, bluffing as always.

 

Phil’s staring at the oven when he says “Do you think we should share the bed this time?”

 

Dan freezes, mid reaching for a glass. “Share?”

 

The oven appears to be fascinating Phil. “Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it. That other bed is meant for elves.”

 

“Uh,” Dan says, “I mean, I’d probably keep you awake with my browsing memes at 3AM-”

 

“Oh, like I don’t do that, too-”

 

“-but you’ve had worse ideas.”

 

Phil actually looks up then, and his eyes are wide. “Really?”

 

Dan nods. So what, if sharing a bed might bring back lingering 2009 feelings? He’s practically Elsa at this point. Conceal, don’t feel…

 

“Ace.” Phil does that tongue-sticking-out smile, opens the oven door to get the pizza-

 

“Shit!”

 

Dan stares at the pizza, which is now face down on the kitchen floor, and Phil’s bare, burnt fingers.

 

“Five second rule,” he mutters to himself, and then screams at Phil “Cold water, cold water! Jesus Christ, Phil, how many times have I told you about oven gloves-”

 

“I _know_ ,” Phil moans, “I’m sorry!”

 

“Apologise to your hands, mate,” Dan says, but his heart is beating fast. Phil is the best thing in his life. He can’t stand to see him hurt. “I’ll fetch the Mr. Men plasters”.

 

Ten minutes later, Phil’s fingers are all plastered up, and Dan’s called for an indian takeaway.

 

“What am I gonna do with you?” he says affectionately, and Phil just smiles.

 

Dan might not have let go of Phil’s hand since he put the plasters on it, but neither of them comment on it.

 

*

 

“I read somewhere that willpower’s a finite resource,” Dan’s saying, fingers playing with the plaster on his shoulder. “And, like… it’s like I can go a few hours, if I really commit to it, but that means that when I finally do cave the damage is far worse than usual. It’s like binge eating, or something.”

 

“And the fist technique isn’t working?”

 

Dan falters. “I… well, I did try… I need to stick at it, I think.”

 

“We could try a mood diary? See if there’s any correlation between a certain mood, and a desire to pick?”

 

“I want this to be, like, my secret, though.”

 

His therapist takes off her glasses, wipes them with a cloth, puts them back on. “I’m not sure that’s the healthiest idea… but there’s probably an app for that, if you’re looking for discretion.”

  
Of course there’s an app for it. He nods dumbly, swinging his legs. “I think the busier I am, the better things get. Hopefully during the tour I’ll be too preoccupied to pick.”

 

“So we just need to focus on the now, then?”

 

“Yeah, I’d say so. I’m practically stalking Phil at the moment, cause I’m too ashamed to do anything when he’s there, so I’m kind of using him as a cure.”

 

She opens her mouth, closes it again, sighs.

 

“I still haven’t told him,” Dan says, preempting what she wants to ask. “I just - how would I even go about doing that?”

 

“It doesn’t have to be a big thing,” she says. “You could do it via text, if that’s easier. Have you told your family?”

 

Dan snorts. She doesn’t even blink, just waits for him to elaborate. “We’re not exactly close. They wouldn’t understand. They can just about wrap their heads around the depression.”

 

“And there’s no one in your life you could tell? No one?”

 

He thinks about it for a moment. “I could try Louise. She’d be supportive.”

 

“Is she local?”

 

He shakes his head. “But that doesn’t really matter. She doesn’t have to be with me in person to help me.”

 

His therapist nods, apparently satisfied.

 

*

 

~~**So sometimes I claw at my skin because it just *feels* like there’s something under there, you know?** ~~

 

~~**I have this compulsion to pick at my skin until I bleed** ~~

 

~~**You know when you get a tattoo and it’s all itchy and you just want to scratch your skin off, well, I have that, just no tattoos** ~~

 

Dan sets his phone down on the sofa, groans. He’s trying to word things in a non “I-need-locking-up” manner, failing. Maybe it would be easier if he just called Louise, but he can’t trust that he’ll actually fess up once she picks up the call. He sighs, goes onto google chrome, copies the NHS website’s link on skin picking disorder, texts it to her before he can think twice.

 

The seconds waiting for her to reply are almost unbearable. He’s staring at his Tumblr dashboard, but his eyes aren’t really focusing. What if she thinks it’s gross, or weird, or both? What if she thinks Phil should know? What if-

 

**Oh, Dan. Does your therapist know? Is it bad?**

 

 **Yes** , he types, **and yes.** **I’m a mess, Lou.**

 

**Does Phil know?**

 

 **I can’t tell him,** Dan says. **I just… don’t tell him, please.**

 

**I won’t. Do you want me round?**

 

He should say “no, you’re busy with Pearl”, or “I can cope on my own, don’t let me bother you”, but the lure of having a person who isn’t his therapist there next to him, who he can confess to, and possibly cry on, is too strong.

 

**Yes.**

 

**Costa. Covent Garden. Tomorrow?**

 

 **You’re a life-saver,** Dan says, and he means it.

 

*

 

Louise is staring at his face. Scrutinising. She’s trying not to, but she’s doing so all the same.

 

“I don’t really… my face isn’t an area I’ve ever really had a problem with, thank god,” Dan mumbles, and Louise is gasping and apologising and saying she didn’t mean to stare, and Dan’s thinking, _oh, sod it_ , and lifting up his jumper and shirt in the secluded corner of the poky, poorly lit Costa, twisting round so she can see his back. His sweaty, gross back. Sweaty because of nerves, gross because it’s _his_ back, so by definition it was never going to be beautiful.

 

“Oh, Dan,” Louise is saying, “does it hurt?”

 

“Not really,” Dan says, injecting his voice with a cheeriness he doesn’t feel. “Does it look painful?”

 

There’s a pause. “Sorry, I just nodded and realised you couldn’t see me,” Louise says. He cracks a smile at that. Weak, but a smile nonetheless. “Yeah, it looks sore. Did you do this recently?”

 

“This one here,” he says, pointing at a mark near his ass (sexy), “I did whilst you were queuing up for drinks.” He lowers his jumper, turns back around, sees her face caught mid-wince. “Yeah. Uh, I don’t really know what you can do about it, but my therapist wanted me to tell someone.”

 

Louise is silent for a moment, sipping on her latte. “You could, I don’t know, text me? When you get the urge? I could try and distract you?”

 

“Are you usually awake at 3AM?”

 

She shakes her head.

 

“Yeah. See the problem. That’s when I do the most damage, when it’s just me and the bedside lamp and the silence of the night, and… fuck.”

 

“I think you should tell Phil,” she says gently. “He could help-”

 

“He’ll just expect me to get better, though,” Dan says.

 

Louise blinks at him. “I-”

 

“If I tell him, he’ll expect progress. I don’t really ‘do’ progress. This thing, it just comes and goes, and it gets worse before it gets better. I don’t want the pressure of letting him down.”

 

“I’m sure if you just explain it to him, he’ll understand. He won’t push you.”

 

“You don’t know that, though.”

 

She regards him for a moment. “I don’t,” she says, “but I think you’re underestimating him right now. He’s been there for you through the depression. He’ll be there for you through this, too.”

 

“I just can’t… how do I…”

 

“You could text?”

 

“You’re the second person to suggest that.” Dan sighs, takes a sip of his macchiato. “It feels like, coming out as gay, or something, you know?”

 

Louise raises her eyebrows in a way that says _I know you’re not straight, Dan, and it’s fine_ , and Dan sighs once more.

 

His phone buzzes, he checks it, freezes. A message from Phil:

 

**Were you shaving your legs again this morning?**

 

 **What?** Dan replies, trying to not let the bad feeling in his gut get the better of him. **I did that *once*, Phil, just to see what it felt like, are my legs really so hairy that I left hair all over the bath-**

 

Another message comes through before he can finish typing:

 

**There’s blood on the bathmat, that’s all. Okay, Howell, who have you killed?**

 

His blood runs cold. He pockets his phone, wraps his hands around his drink. Like he’s cursed, his left hand immediately leaves the cup to rub against his lower leg, which he may or may have not attacked last night. He was usually always so careful, how did this happen?

 

The solution, of course, is to ignore the problem (i.e ignore Phil).

 

“How about a nice Primark haul?” he says, and Louise looks at him quizzically, but nods all the same. “Primark, and then we can try that new fish restaurant, and then we can go to the park for a couple of hours, and-”

 

His voice cracks, and he’s blinking away tears. Damn.

 

“It’ll be OK,” Louise says, rubbing his arm soothingly, and he wishes he could believe her.

 

 **I have to tell you something** , he texts Phil, hands slightly shaking. **Don’t hate me.**

 

**You really have killed someone, haven’t you? Am I next? I’m sorry I ate your cereal!**

 

He can’t even crack a smile at Phil’s humorous messages.

 

**I’ll be home around 5. I’m fine, I’m safe.**

 

 **OK, I’m not fine** , he amends, **but I’m not, like, *really* not fine.**

 

**Maybe that’s a lie-**

 

 **You’re scaring me, Dan** , Phil says.

 

Dan texts Phil that same NHS link, adds **don’t hate me** , and then turns his phone off.

 

“Primark!” he exclaims, so loud that a woman two tables over peers round at him. “Time for Primark!”

 

Louise shoots him a worried glance, but gets up, as does Dan.

 

 _Maybe if I spend enough money, the bad feelings will go away_.

 

...And that’s a lie if he ever knew one.  

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter has taken so long! I basically read the past two chapters back like “wow I hate this”, so I’ve just been flailing around trying to create this one so it makes up for those! It’s super short but I hope you like it! Thanks so much for all your comments so far! :D

Dan gets home late, arms ladened with shopping bags, and Phil’s there in the lounge, blinking sleepily, the TV turned on to some crappy channel that Dan know Phil probably long stopped actually watching, and Dan opens his mouth to try and speak, and Phil’s looking at him, and then Phil’s saying “I love you, you know?” and Dan just blinks, and Phil says “Like, _love_ love,” and Dan’s opening his mouth again, and Phil’s saying “I’m here for you - will be here for you forever, if you’d like that?” and Dan manages to say “I love you too” and they don’t kiss, not yet, but they smile at each other in a way that’s as intimate as kissing, and Dan’s so happy he doesn’t even make himself bleed for the rest of the night, and the next day they get up earlier than usual to film a gaming video where they don’t try and hide how they feel about each other, and maybe they’re holding hands, who can tell, and-

 

*

 

Of course, it doesn’t happen like that.

 

Phil stays up for him, yes, might not say “I love you”, but does say “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

And Dan, suddenly aware of all the useless shit he’s bought, how he can never appreciate any of it cause it’ll just remind him of _pain_ , says “I thought I did. But I don’t, actually. Not yet.”

 

So they don’t talk about it.

 

After that, it’s like nothing has changed.

 

*

 

There is a certain relief, though. The secret’s out. No more hiding.

 

(He still might hide, regardless, and maybe Phil knowing actually makes things _worse_ , cause whenever he inevitably fucks up and does tear his skin to pieces he’s thinking _I let Phil down I let Phil down_ , but you can’t have everything, can you?)

 

*

 

It’s like nothing has changed.

 

Until he wakes up one afternoon to a note on the fridge that says “Look inside! :)” and opens it to find - well, he’s not sure what he was actually expecting, but it to wasn’t this - to find a bright blue box.

 

He gets it out of the fridge, opens it up.

 

Blinks.

 

“For you! :)” another note inside the box reads.

 

And what’s inside the box?

 

Plasters.

 

(Pokemon plasters)

 

Moisturiser.

 

(fancy, but gentle on the skin, apparently)

 

A tangle toy.

 

(matte black, naturally)

 

A box of chewing gum.

 

(“Pizza flavoured” the box says, and Dan says, out loud, “ _Really_? Phil, who did you have to kill to get this?” and then reads the scary amount of e numbers it contains with a fond smile)

 

A bath bomb.

 

(actually not black - this one is a kind of galaxy purple. He’ll use it later and a laminated piece of paper will come floating out that says “You’ve got this” and he might cry a little)

 

And, finally-

 

A photo of him and Phil, circa 2009.

 

(Dan didn’t know this photo existed. In it, he’s smiling so happy, so happy, and on the back of the photo Phil’s just written “Us.”)

 

Dan stares at the box, overwhelmed.

 

But the good kind of overwhelmed.

 

He’d wanted Phil to tell him everything would be OK.

 

Now he has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> say hi on tumblr at mysticalkoalamiracle :))

**Author's Note:**

> should I keep this going? Is it crap? Let me know in the comments! :)


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